


despair

by SerpentPrince



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Hypothermia, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentPrince/pseuds/SerpentPrince
Summary: The snow is blinding and Lavellan is in pain.Novelization of the latter part of the quest ‘In Your Heart Shall Burn’
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 13





	despair

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the majority of this after playing the quest ‘In Your Heart Shall Burn’ in 2014 lol. Found it while going through my old writing. 
> 
> Just writing about my good ol’ Inquisitor Kerym Lavellan having a terrible time.

Kerym Lavellan ached everywhere. Corypheus was toying with him at this point. He was just a puny insect to the ancient darkspawn, and he was going to die.

He feared death just like any other, but he feared the deaths of his friends more. It was strange to the Dalish elf that he was friends with anyone in the rag-tag group of shemlen, Qunari, flat-ears and dwarves. If he told the Kerym of the past that he would even be friends with a shemlen, there would be disbelief and laughter.

He would die today to give them time, and he would do it without regret. His magic was drained, he was exhausted, but he was ready to give them his last breath. A found sword was at the ready, an unfamiliar weight in the mage's hands.

"If I'm dying... It's not today!" His words sounded as if they came out of someone else's mouth. Kerym didn't believe them, there was no hope for him. However, it succeeds in riling up the darkspawn and in the moment of surprise caused by his defiance, Kerym forced his battered body to activate the trebuchet.

It sent a large bolder violently against the mountain. A deep rumble filled the air, it struck true. With the oncoming avalanche, the darkspawn and the dragon had the good sense to leave quickly; leaving Kerym to the mercy of the oncoming debris-filled snow.

The elf ran on instinct and adrenaline; trying to ignore the pain that flooded his body from when the thing threw him. He knew there was a possibility if he got buried in the snow rather than bowled over, he could burn his way out with his magic. Or perhaps it was just animalistic fear that led his steps. His blind panic left him to run, but he didn't pay attention to where his feet lead him. One leap was met with open-air and then falling. His vision went black.

\---

Dorian didn't want to leave; yet again he felt the temptation to do something stupidly brave for the blond elf, but unlike the first time, where he diverted Alexis's magic, he was frozen in place. That was the plan. They were supposed to deliver the little elf to an area in which would bring the attention of the elder one to delay it so everyone could escape.

Then take out the enemy with an avalanche by using the trebuchet.  
Instead, the elf was separated from all of them. That was a part of the plan that ended up coming early, but it was still followed. Kerym was the only one that wouldn't have been killed on sight, he was the only one that could have acted as a distraction.

He remembered the resolute determination in the elf's eyes in the chantry; they were to leave him to die, so they could live. He told them of they got themselves killed on his account he would kill them again, probably with some lost magic and shit. (Sera was very alarmed at that) There was hesitation when the time came; Dorian couldn't even see the herald over the scaly mountain that was the dragon. He stood in place staring, thinking of the teasing, smiling, stupidly honourable elf and his lack of self-preservation.

Iron Bull was the one that snapped out of it the fastest; he was a mercenary, it was his job to not get lost in the moment. Especially since they could see the red glow of more red Templars coming their way. He picked up both Dorian and Sera; slinging them both over his shoulders and sprinting to a safer, or perhaps a more defendable area. Dorian made the mistake of looking back; he saw the elf being held up his marked hand by a much taller being. He was struggling and swinging. Dorian couldn't look anymore as they ran into trouble, he focused on sending flashfires into the corrupted templars. The battle ended quickly and there was a brief respite until the groan of a trebuchet filled the air.  
The Herald did it.

\---

Kerym was in pain, his body was battered, bruised, and bloody. Gore oozed from cuts all over his body, the most noticeable being one above his left eye that managed to cover half his face with sticky drying blood.

He didn't want to move, but the biting cold assaulting his limbs motivated him to open his eyes; the left one having to be opened with force since dried blood glued it shut.

The room- the cavern that the elf was in, was dim, but he could see the faint light drifting in from a connecting tunnel and the hole he fell through. It was a shade of green that the elf had grown to hate, there was a rift in the cold cave; the tingle of his mark confirmed it.

This motivated the elf to move from his awkward position on the rubble. Every movement was agony and Kerym couldn't stop whimpers from slipping out. But he was alive and that what counted. Kerym didn't know how long that would continue with the deadly cold and his wounds, but by the creators, he survived an avalanche, perhaps he did have a chance.

The movement helped the elf figure out where his worst wounds were, he definitely had a bruised or even broken rib by the fact when he attempted to calm down with deep breaths it hurt almost enough to make him double over. His leg continued to be in pain from the darkspawn tossing him into a wall, and he had many cuts littered across his body that cut straight through his leathers. (There was also several slashes decorating armour instead of his flesh) He imagined how discouraged the people would be to see their 'Herald' barely keeping it together; hunched over, clutching his side, limping and whimpering.

Kerym regretted using all his health and lyrium potions in the heat of battle; he was completely spent now, he doubted he could even take on a nug like he was.  
The cavern was obviously not a natural occurring by the almost perfect roundness of the tunnels, the cold metal torch holders and the rectangular bricks that sat unused in piles as a recurring element. A soft green light came from farther down in the one-way cavern.  
He forced himself to walk toward the light and very quickly it was confirmed as a fade rift by the way his mark illuminated the cavern in response.

Demons jumped from the fissure; a pair of despair demons and three wraiths; a challenge for Kerym to take on at full health and full mana, but in the state he was in, they would slaughter him with ease. He went to turn back and look for another way, (Maybe he could dig a path, maybe he wasn't looking hard enough) but they spotted him. He knew by the threatening blast that went past his head.

It was embarrassing; he survived whatever happened at the conclave, going into the future and an avalanche, but a green wraith was what takes him out. The despair demons were probably getting a boost from all his self-pity.  
That was when his mark started to feel strange. It felt hot, like a flashfire used without a staff. So as a last resort, Kerym faced his glowing palm to the rift and let what mana he still had left flow into the mark, a tactic he hadn't tried before in fear of it spreading.

The mark reacted to it without much persuasion, a sensation the same as closing a rift filled his hand and even more green erupted from overhead the fade creatures. Their demeanours changed quickly, whatever mouths they had been open in screams. The new controlled rift, Kerym's rift, was pulling them apart. Both quickly faded into nothingness. The elf didn't waste time in closing the larger rift leaving him once again alone in the dark.

He allowed his fade mark to continue to glow; it was uncomfortable boarding on painful, (like an open cut filled with acid with maggots crawling under the skin) but it used up a lot less mana than maintaining a flame. He couldn't help but chide himself for losing his staff in the heat of battle; the fire staff that was knocked out of his hands would have been extremely useful. But wishes and looking back wouldn't keep him alive, so he limped forward.

It was a slow process, but Kerym wasn't going to sit down and freeze to death in the snow; instead, he would struggle till the end. His armour, a battlemage's jacket made of iron and hide, was usually enough to stave off the elements, but this was not his usual situation and the icy cold bit through it with ease. It seemed to get even colder the more he walked.

He just moved forward without any goal or end plan. The elf didn't even allow himself to think about what he was doing and where he was going. He couldn't let the despair get to him. His thoughtless gait leads him through a small tunnel into another cavern, but the whole other side of this one was open to the outside.

It was dark out, the wind howled, bringing in more frigid air to chill the elf. Soft snow rained down. He didn't want to go out into that, but he knew that this may be his only chance, there was a high possibility that the snow would bury the entrance of the cavern by morning. It was either brave the wind and maybe survive, or stay in the cave and have a rest before death arrived.

Kerym pulled up his Mage's cowl over his pointed ears (in hindsight he should have done that earlier) and he hobbled to the exit; every breath he took becoming more difficult than the last.

  
\---Dorian wasn't dead. It was close and the Iron Bull saved them all again by picking them up and running. Cullen had told them before of somewhere to run and be safe after sending off the trebuchet. They barely got there. Luckily for the city dwellers; Dorian and Sera, Bull had a good sense of direction and was able to find it. It was a fortified merchant's route meant to survive through avalanches with its tilted and reinforced roof. They managed to get into the covered path before the snow carried them away. They were quite fortunate that only a few Templars remained on the merchants' path. Dorian mind was adamant about keeping thoughts off a certain person. Everyone else in the party looked to have been as successful as him by the sombre mood that settled; strangling any of the usual banter into silence.  
\---  
The snow was pretty, Kerym supposed, it was unblemished by any footprints. It absolutely glittered as the sickly green light from the mark hit it. Being fresh, his leather boots fell right through the mounds of white shit and lifting up his wounded leg to move it to make another foot- no leg print- sent waves of agony coursing through his body. He could feel himself starting to tear up, but he tried to stop the flow because water running down his face in this weather would just make him colder as the tear tracks could freeze. He didn't succeed in stopping them and his whimpers became even more pathetic. He doubted the people's morale would improve at all seeing their 'herald' as he was. 

There wasn't much but snow, some broken planks that used to be something (like a wagon) and trees in the elf's sights. It didn't make him feel good, but he kept walking with a hitch in his step.  
It became a rhythm and the only thing the elf thought of. Left, right, left. It was a great distraction technique, it was one he used often around the irritating shemlen who bowed at his feet for being something he wasn't. Right, left. Or when the shemlen nobles visit and said nice things, but their lips were always curled in anger and the first thing out of their mouths once they left were nasty angry slurs. Right, heretic, left, knife-ear, right, savage, left, rabbit. The cavern was far back now, but there was still nothing ahead. There was some relief, however. The snowdrifts had become less deep and his leg hurt a lot less by being numbed by the cold.

As he stumbled along he saw something dark contrasting against the white of the snow, and he pushed himself to move faster toward it.  
It was a campsite, some snow sat upon it, but it wasn't terribly old by the fact it wasn't buried. There was an iron pot, something that would hold it during cooking and a small ring of rocks surrounding a pile of grey soot. Kerym placed a frozen hand (his broken or bruised rib didn't agree with the action, it sent another burst of pain throughout his body) upon the sooty ground to see if any of the embers still lived, but he was disappointed by the results. It was cold. It did however fill his chest with more hope than he had during the entire battle. People survived this awful event. This could even be some of Haven's people, it could have been his friends. He soldiered on, leaving the discarded fire-pit behind, but he couldn't return to his game of patterns.

Instead, he continued his awkward walk of his right-hand siting on his damaged rib and his left, his fade marked one, held over his eyes to attempt to stop the barrage of snowflakes obstructing his vision.

His friends likely made it, he was sure he bought them enough time. They were probably celebrating their lives or mourning his death. Kerym really hoped they would take in his request for them to not send him off with shemlen chantry funeral rites and instead inform his clan and let them do it away from the chantry's sights. He didn't want to be the herald of Andraste in death (or even in life), he wanted to be Kerym of the Lavellan clan. He wondered if the clan would plant a tree for him without his body. They had done that before when a hunter drowned in a fast-flowing river and was washed away to they could not follow. He wondered what sort of tree they would plant for him. Maybe an oak.

Kerym didn't even think of moving anymore, the steps became something as constant as the heart thrumming in his chest. He wanted to stop and rest, but he knew that any rest would probably be permanent. The snow was starting to get even deeper as it travelled uphill, it was too fresh to support his light elven body so every step meant more snow melting in his boot. It was starting to get less noticeable by how his calves got more numbed; it wasn't good, but Kerym found it better than the biting cold.

The elf wondered if Bull was as cold as he was right now with his usually exposed chest. He wondered if Dorian was complaining about the frigid conditions as his entire shoulder hung out from his under armour. He wondered if Solas's bald head was always cold. (Kerym always had his hair grown into long wavy blond locks to stay warm and for the children in his clan to have something to braid) He hoped they all were alright. He hoped that they weren't hobbling around in the snow with their bodies betraying them. He hoped- he saw another contrasting spot on the icy ground. It was another abandoned campsite.

Kerym placed his hand to the charred wood (careful not to move his injured rib in a way that would bring extreme hurt onto himself) and was surprised that some warmth still remained. It was faint, a few surviving embers, but it was there. It was recent. He had a closer look at where the snow was shallowest, and he saw a mess of footprints that was only partially covered and shifted by the bad weather conditions.

The steps were old, perhaps more than an hour old, but it still lightened Kerym's spirit. Someone lived still, whether it be a passing hunter, the people of Haven or a party of red Templars, Kerym was pleased since he wasn't completely alone in this snowy hellscape. It was selfish to wish other people were around in this inhospitable environment, but Kerym was selfish, a piece of his self-identity that he forced back to become the hero that people wanted.  
He heard the bay of wolves over the winds, Kerym hoped they would continue remaining wary of his glowing hand and keep their distance. A pack of hungry wolves was unpleasant and difficult to deal with any day. Especially if they were the fade crazed variety.

He kept walking, he didn't look back fearing that the cavern would just be steps behind him, that his awkward movements didn't take him anywhere.  
The deep footsteps of what looked to be from a marching army showed through trampled snow, there were no more signs of breaks being taken and Kerym's hitched hike in the wintery cold had certainly taken its toll on the Dalish elf.

His fingers, his toes, his arms, legs, his ears- all of them were numb, but still, some pain echoed through the very marrow of his bones as he breathed; his rib (likely ribs) was very likely broken, a fact he tried to deny earlier.

He kept walking with his unmarked hand gingerly holding his side. He moved at a slower pace; it was his ailing body's choice, not his; and he was determined not to stop because if he stopped he would die.

His breaths came in short and fast puffs of white; he was exhausted and the elf knew he wasn't going to be able to continue soon. But he was stubborn, and he planned to push himself to the end. He was Dalish after all. He reached the top of a small hill and his yellow eyes caught something that filled his chest with hope. It was a large camp, filled to the brim with people. They had fires and tents that were the same plain colours like the ones that were kept as emergency supplies.

Kerym wanted to weep from joy, but in his current state, all he could do was let his chapped lips curl into a smile. He moved toward camp as fast as he could. (Almost at the speed of a walking corpse) The sentries saw him and alerted the rest of the group. Forcing his body past his limits had a cost however, his good leg hit an icy patch in the flattened slow and his other leg didn't make it in time to right himself. He crashed to the ground; jarring his wounded ribs in the process making the pain unbearable. He didn't think he could move anymore, he was having a hard enough time getting a breath in.

"Look at the armour." Kerym could see black spots and the snow wasn't that cold anymore.

"It can't be." Kerym closed his eyes.

"It's him!" That was Cassandra.

The elf gave into the creeping darkness that wanted to claim him during this whole situation.

\---

News travelled fast and everyone was celebrating. The Herald's survival only cemented their belief of him being Andraste's and it gave them hope. The sombre feelings and expressions all over camp were gone, they still mourned the fallen, but hope was regained.  
Dorian was one of the last to hear of this news since most of the inquisition and the people of Haven avoided him like the plague; afraid that the big bad Tevinter would sacrifice them for an evil spell to kill puppies and kittens.

He got the news through a serious-faced messenger that asked him if he had any experience in healing magic. Dorian didn't want to lie, he had a bit since it was interesting to be able to use necromancy and it's opposite, so the messenger led him into a busy tent. He was surprised by what he saw.

There were both chantry healers and the recently joined rebel mages working together, but the most surprising was the patient that was the centre of everyone's attention.

It was the herald, someone that Dorian never expected to see again. He looked so small. The elf's leather armour lain discarded in a corner while the elf set under mounds of blankets. He was deathly pale, his black tattoos contrasting against the pale skin and it looked like he was sleeping. Or dead. It worried Dorian, the world would probably be swallowed up by rifts without him. And also the elf was one of the few that made an active effort to include and befriend him.

A couple of the mages sat at his side; absolutely spent and by the empty lyrium bottles at their sides, they went beyond what they could do on their own. A chantry woman notice his presence and rushed over to him, "Only healers are permitted to be here, please leave." The older woman's beady little eyes stared Dorian down.  
"I have knowledge in healing magics, I am here to lend my assistance," the woman stared him down as he was an insignificant insect.

"Please sister, we could use the fresh mana." One of the mages at the unconscious Kerym's side asked.

"Very well, but he is your responsibility." The beady-eyed shrew knew that everyone was exhausted.

"Come over here," Dorian moved to the tired Mage and passed out elf. "The herald has hypothermia, frostbite, broken and bruised ribs along with much more, do not move him or heal the small wounds, focus on warming him up." The Mage commanded and Dorian went to work for once without a complaint. He had grown to like the elf over the time he had known him so letting him suffer waiting for the other mages mana to come back wasn't an option.

He began to cast a heat spell; a small variation of a fire one that the elf taught him after the Tevinter man complained about his 'footsies' being cold one too many times. It was one that needed a lot of focus so it wasn't the most practical for on the road, but it was beneficial right now. He pressed his hands to the only part of Lavellan that wasn't covered in blankets, his face.

His skin was cold and waxy; Dorian wanted to pull his arm away. The person who made such an effort to befriend him had no right to feel like one of the corpses he studied in the circle. He let the warmth flow from his hands; he moved from touching Lavellan's face to his neck, where the slow beat of his heart thrummed through Dorian's fingers reassuring him. Lavellan was alive and that was what mattered. Thedas still had its saviour and Dorian still had a friend.

\---

Kerym felt something. It was strange because you know, he expected to be dead? It was warm and soothing. It was as if his body was dangling above a fire. His body felt awfully numb and his thoughts came slowly. He just couldn't focus, it felt as if he'd been drugged. Kerym then remembered what happened the last time his eyes were open; he remembered the snow, the fear and the overwhelming despair. He made it his goal to open his eyes and that wasn't a task done without a struggle. His eyelids were just as heavy as the rest of his body, but after a time, he managed to slowly open them. The scene before him wasn't one of loneliness and ice; instead, the area was candlelit and enclosed. A man's head lain on the pile of mismatched fabric covering the elf's body. Kerym would have guessed it was his chest the man's head sat. It was hard to tell when his body refused to respond. A limp hand was sitting on Kerym's neck. It took a few seconds before recognition settled in due to the Kerym's current foggy state. It was Dorian, the Altus who Kerym found quite easy to get along with unless slavery was the topic. The man was sleeping on top of him. It was cute, Kerym could swear he saw a little puddle of drool soaking into the blanket from the Altus's wide-open mouth.

Kerym was so relieved, he was alive. He survived. He couldn't maintain consciousness for very long. He could already feel his eyelids falling. The last thing he saw was Dorian's cute sleeping face.


End file.
